


The Girls of 221B

by insomniac_tales



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insomniac_tales/pseuds/insomniac_tales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Genderswap of Sherlock (BBC) / Sherlock-verse (ACD). Two fabulous ladies fighting crime around London and navigating the ins and outs of living together. Bit of a mashup of new and old Sherlock with a few liberties taken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> I do need a beta if there are any volunteers in the audience. Has not been brit-picked. It's Gen so far, but I imagine there will be pairings and other nonsense eventually.

The Introduction

 

The first meeting with Joan Watson and Sharon Holmes left Joan feeling disconcerted.

A uni chum set up the meeting. "You need a flat, she needs a flatmate. Perfection."

That was the last time Joan Watson told Mike Stamford anything about her living predicaments. "What sort of person is she?"

It wasn't like anyone could properly describe Sharon; one had to meet her to understand. Mike shrugged and handed Joan a card.

 

__

_Sharon Holmes_

__

_Consulting Detective_

_221B Baker Street_

_London, W1_

 

Joan debated for a few hours, flipping the card over in her hand. She couldn't stay with Harry much longer without the serious threat of throttling him. She needed to have her own address again. At the very least it was an excuse to get out of the house and do something with her afternoon.

She cabbed it across London and arrived at a rather nice looking street. A cafe resided next to the plain black door of 221B. Joan approached with skillful trepidation. As she knocked at the door, a sweet and unassuming woman answered. "Well come in now, dear. Sharon's been waiting."

Joan didn't know how this mysterious Sharon could be waiting for her. She hadn't been expected. She mounted the steps slowly, one at a time as a severe limp in her right leg limited her mobility; she'd been using a cane since her return from the service.

Her knock was greeted with a door that pushed open and a quiet strain of violin that ended as abruptly as she'd heard it.

A woman stood near the window, setting a violin back upon the sideboard that was its home. "You're late," she pronounced, a bit tetchy considering she didn't know Joan Watson from any other Tom, Dick, or Jim on the street.

Watson took a moment to size her up. She was elegant, though at first glance Joan thought she looked like a caricature of Natasha from Bullwinkle. So tall and impossibly thin. It seemed as though she were entirely comprised of limbs.

Her dark suit was impeccable, tailored to fit her frame. Curly black hair was pinned back effortlessly, a dark frame for such a pale, angular face. She appeared to be one of those women with classic, easy style. Always perfectly dressed, always in season for the single reason that she was entirely out of season; timeless.

The room around her was remarkably messy for such a tidy looking person. The wallpaper hideous, the decor questionable. Every surface was covered with books, papers, what looked like experiments which should really be contained in a lab.

Needless, Joan couldn't think of a sensible reply to being late seeing as she'd only just shown up. "I seem to be at a loss."

"Mike gave you my card hours ago."

Joan frowned at that. "Did he phone you up?"

"Of course not," Sharon replied without care. A simple gesture of her hand indicated that Joan should sit in the rather stodgy looking chair near the hearth. "He did ask for a card this morning. I deduced that he had someone in mind and that I should be expecting them today." Mike was the sort who was insidiously punctual, never dawdled when there was a task to be done "Elementary."

Joan couldn't help feeling like a specimen in a petri dish as Sharon looked her over. She hobbled to the chair and took a seat if only to escape that piercing, blue gaze.

Sharon was observing, eeking out the sweeping generalization along with the minutiae that defined Joan. She was short, but well built, muscled underneath that hideous sweater. Her clothing was very clean, very straight laced. Her sandy blond hair was pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She walked assisted by a cane, but her real problem was a weak left shoulder, evidenced simply by the way she held her arm.

"So what do you think?" Sharon asked as if she'd already made up her mind and this was a done deal.

Joan leaned forward. For a moment she was certain this Holmes woman was joking. "You don't even know my name."

"Tell me then," Sharon said as an afterthought.

"Joan Watson." _Keep it simple._ There was no need to mention Doctor or Captain. Another tour of duty and she might have reached Major. "We still know next to nothing about each other."

Sharon's sharp face twisted into a rare grin. Joan Watson was making this too easy. "I know all I need to about you. You're recently out of the service, assuming you served in Afghanistan. The limp is a trophy from the war and it's entirely psychosomatic. You were in the Medical Corps. You haven't been getting any sleep where you're staying and you need to get out of there soon."

"Mike did phone you up," Joan said quite certainly and folded her arms over her chest.

Sharon's smile settled into the usual cool mask of appraisal. "Your hair is standard military style. You haven't let go of the styling, still clinging to the idea that you might go on another tour of duty, which points to the fact that your wound is psychosomatic. It should heal with some therapy, but you're not taking the advice of your therapist. You should know that your cane is an inch too tall for your frame. Your hands are chapped, but clinically clean, scrubbed so much that you have to use hospital grade hand lotion. Only a doctor or nurse has hands that dry."

Joan sat in wonder, jaw dropped as each explanation of the observation clicked together like puzzle pieces.

"As to your lack of sleep, the dark bags under your eyes are evidence enough of that. Mike wouldn't have given you my card unless you were desperate."

"That's it then? You can tell all that at a glance?"

Sharon smiled. "It's the science of deduction. My life's work."

"And no shortage of bragging," Joan pointed out with wry humor. "That's all very well, clearly you know me. I still have no idea about you."

Sharon was about to explain that all Joan needed to know was that she could become fastidiously intense, beyond rude when concentrating on a problem, and tended to play the violin at odd hours, but Detective Inspector Lestrade choose that moment to burst through her door.

"Ah, Detective Inspector." Her tone was dripping with something resembling contempt, but there was the tiniest hint of sentiment behind it.

"I need your help."

Joan watched from her perch. He was a handsome man, dark hair shot through with gray, healthy stubble on his chin. He had the usual suit and tie ensemble of a detective, though he'd opted to leave off the tie and keep the top button of his shirt undone. He looked to be in peak physical condition, though Joan was certain she could take him in a fist fight.

"Any plans for the day, Joan?"

"I... No."

"Excellent. I'm certain I'll need your medical expertise before the day is out. It will provide you ample opportunity to develop an _idea_ about me."

Lestrade looked dubious, but he didn't bother chastising Sharon for her process anymore. Not when he needed her help so desperately. "Shall we then?"

"We'll follow in our own car, thanks." Sharon was done with riding in police cars.

Lestrade didn't hide the nearly comical roll of his eyes. "As you like, ladies." He offered the address to Sharon before ducking out and getting back to his own business.

"Now, where are we going?" Joan asked after the detective had left and she was sharing space with this strange and intimidating creature.

"A crime scene," Sharon replied so gleefully it was almost obscene.


	2. The Decision to Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson decides to move in.

The Decision to Stay

 

 

            It was hours later when Sharon dragged Joan back to the apartment. They'd run half-way across London chasing a lead and then cabbed it back to 221B when the thing turned out to be fruitless.

            Joan was convinced the only reason they took a cab was because her limp was nearly unbearable after trying to run such a distance. Her first impression was that Sharon Holmes wasn't capable of that level of empathy, but she hailed a cab without making a point of it.

            Color Miss Watson surprised. Still she hadn't entirely made up her mind. The space was nice if she could convince Holmes to clean it up a bit. The adventure might be a bonus if Holmes always invited her along.

            But this woman was clearly unhinged to a degree.

            _Maybe that's the point; we're both a little broken._

Who was Joan kidding? They were both profoundly broken. The war had done good old Watson in; coming home to a mire of personal problems had only upped the ante. It would take some time to unravel the mystery of Holmes, to discover the root causes of her peculiar behavior.

            Sharon was quiet on the way home, even quieter when they were standing once again in the apartment. It would take Watson some time to adjust to these episodes of silence. One moment Holmes was in a fury, frothing over a mouthful of ideas. The next she was silent, stony and unapproachable.

            Joan took this time to appraise the apartment better. It seemed a bit tidier as if someone had been in to clean. A peek in the fridge revealed that the clean had not been thorough. The experiments running in 221B resided in the oddest nooks and crannies. Joan had the stomach of a medical professional, strong enough to hold it down. At the very least the body parts were sealed in plastic bags or quarantined under glass domed plates.

            She couldn't help questioning how sanitary it all was.

            It wasn't the barely contained mess that gave her pause, once she'd thought it through. It wasn't even Holmes herself. The woman was complex and interesting, so fascinating that Watson was willing to indulge the sticky thorns of her personality.

            The danger and excitement had almost decided her. Sharon Holmes was a cool flame, a tower of blue light that the moth fluttering in Watson's breast wanted to throw itself against. This was the therapy that Watson needed, though the ache in her leg protested.

            She placed her hesitation when her cell buzzed. _Harry_.

            He'd been very gracious letting her stay at his place. He'd even given her his cell to use until she could afford her own. A roof over her head, food to eat, some hand-me down jumpers, and no questions asked about the action _'over there.'_

Yet it was a touchy situation altogether, what with the trial separation from Clara and the alarming amount of substance abuse that had occurred since Joan's return.

Joan worried that she was the lynch pin preventing the grenade from blowing.

She was standing in the living room again, shoving his phone back in her pocket and ignoring the call. Her thoughts had brought her face to face with Holmes, looking at Sharon looking at her, like wildlife shows where the animals sized one another up.

Joan was the lioness, Sharon the jackal. Somehow they were each willing to sacrifice a bit of their territory, let it overlap and gradually become the place they shared.

Starring into those gray-blue eyes her mind finally clicked. Harry would have to master his own destiny. "When's the rent due?"

 

\----

 

            Sharon watched as Joan Watson picked her way through the apartment. Their adventures of the afternoon had been an introductory dunk in the deep, murky waters of Sharon's work.

            She kept her eyes slightly unfocused, but the bright mind behind them was working to unravel the curious Dr. Watson.

            In most respects Joan was perfectly normal, the sort of person that might grow tiresome to be around. Yet underneath was a stunning core of something beyond. Joan Watson wasn't just like everyone else.

            There was a sharply trained instinct beneath the veneer of an obedient army doctor. Something struggling to rattle free of its constraints and simply exist as it always should have.

            Maybe the doctor wasn't terribly clever; perhaps she'd never have the deductive mind that Holmes wanted to come up against. But she offered something else that Sharon didn't even realize she needed.

            Loyalty, unquestioning trust, a need for adventure, and the surprising ability to call Sharon out on her shit without the usual irritation.

            Brown eyes met her gaze and it was decided. "First of the month."


End file.
